He opened the revolver to check it for ammunition. It was full.
He wrapped a piece of bedding around the weapon to quiet the metal to metal sound as he closed it again. He was catlike as he quietly moved from the bed and across the room. He donned a house coat at the bedroom door, and found a suitable perch to set his ambush. His heart thundered in his ears. He was dizzy with fear and excitement.
His target appeared in his field of fire. It was a man, dimly lit by the light of a street light outside, pouring in through heavy curtains. He could tell by the stiff and deliberate gait, that it was definitely a man. Seconds became hours in his mind. When the man looked up at the head of the stairs, he must have seen Steve, because he made a sudden move. Steve's instincts took over. He didn't think at all. Had he even tried to think, he would have done the wrong thing. He would have pulled the trigger and the pistol would have pointed downward. He did what he was supposed to do and squeezed the trigger, not anticipating the moment that the weapon would discharge its round. At that moment, his thought became a straight line through his arm, the pistol, and finally through the target.
The thunder and flash of the gunfire echoed all around him, but it barely registered in Steve's mind. The sound of his heartbeat filled his mind again. Though he couldn't see the point of the round's impact, he saw by the movement of the dark shape, that he had hit his target. The shape of a man seemed to recoil around a spot in the middle of its chest. The movement of the target became clumsy and unnatural, as it began to tumble down the stairs like a bag of dirty laundry. Steve rose and followed the strangely moving shape, discharging his weapon, until it was empty and the only sound was a click at the bottom of the stairs.
